


Cuts Like

by mystiri1



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Bondage, M/M, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rough Sex, Sado-Masochism, Sex Toys, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystiri1/pseuds/mystiri1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vincent and Cloud have an arrangement. Somehow, it meets both their needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuts Like

His claws aren’t designed for cutting, but for ripping and tearing, so he only allows himself the luxury of a few scratches before moving on to one of the knives laid out so neatly on the bench.

The switch to the exquisitely sharp blade is a challenge; although he can draw blood far more easily with this, it’s also easier to slice to deep, too carelessly, and the blood rouses his demons to greater levels of excitement even as it appeases them. Vincent never thought he’d be using the Turk training he’d received in such a way, on someone he considered a friend, but he is grateful for it now as it allows him to know precisely where to place the cut to avoid major veins and arteries. Even so, he makes the first slice on the side of Cloud’s wrist just below the bindings, barely an inch and a half long. There’s the hiss of an indrawn breath. For a long moment there’s nothing, as the blade is very sharp, then blood slowly wells. When it forms a drop and begins rolling down towards his elbow, Vincent leans forward and licks it.

Rich copper taste explodes on his tongue, echoing the scent that was teasing him earlier, with the sharp tang of mako and stranger things. Cloud has an exotic taste, even to his other selves. The blond moans and Vincent bites back an answering one of his own. More, his demons hiss, Chaos leading the demand. Cloud tastes of mortality and power, and it’s intoxicating.

A cut on the opposite wrist, another lick, and then he moves to the smooth expanse of back. He runs a hand over it, feeling the way the muscles bunch at the shoulders from the raised position of his arms. If he looks carefully he can see the marks of other sessions, hair-thin streaks of silver skin; reassuring to know that he hasn’t damaged him before, and won’t now, as long as he remains in control.

If he can remain in control.

The next cut is in the flesh on one shoulder, and he fastens his mouth there and sucks, drawing the blood up when it doesn’t well to the surface quickly enough. Cloud gasps, shudders. Vincent’s clawed hand grabs his hip, tightening its grip in sudden warning: don’t move, be still. It subsides to a tremor, but he can feel the delicious tension running through the body under his touch like a vibration. When he lifts his mouth, the skin around the cut is darkened by a bruise, and red continues to seep out.

He makes his way down Cloud’s back, cutting and licking. Each cut comes a little quicker than the last, the way his mouth latches on to the resulting blood progressively more frantic. The gunman skims over the globes of his ass with the plug nestled neatly, teasingly between them, because that’s not the hunger driving him right now. Instead he moves onto his legs. There are several arteries to avoid here, and the last cut is just above the back of his knee. Vincent watches impatiently as the blood wells up, begins to run, and then he darts forward to lick at it, caught in that little hollow, and revels in the way Cloud cries out.

So many wonderful, helpless sounds: high, breathy cries and frantic whimpers, prey sounds, but they are not sounds made in fear. When he’s more rational, he wonders how Cloud can react to something like this with pleasure, worries for him – but for now he’s just grateful, the demons inside him urging him on.

Vincent moves around to his front, and pauses. It takes Cloud a moment to realise he’s there, that there is nothing else happening. Dazed blue eyes struggle to focus as they meet fierce bloody-minded red, pushing out of the haze of sensation to actual cognizance. There is pain there, but also other things, like lust and need, and the clearer they became, the more another emotion shines through: trust. That is what gives Vincent the strength to rein his rioting demons in, to throttle back the urge he feels to rend and destroy, to feast on the vulnerable flesh before him.

From the front there is no sign of the myriad bloody cuts decorating Cloud’s back, nothing to suggest he should be distressed at all. His cheeks are flushed, his lips bruised and swollen from biting at them, a light sheen of sweat coating his body. And between his legs his cock juts reddened and swollen, the slit weeping, the ring around its base the only thing keeping him from his release.

Vincent cups his gauntlet carefully under that meaty length, and Cloud sucks in his breath. The gauntlet, with its articulated joints and pointed claws, is not designed to handle delicate things, and it wouldn’t take more than a slip for it to catch and pinch hypersensitive flesh in exquisitely painful ways. Vincent sinks to his knees, his eyes never leaving Cloud’s and brings the knife up, rests the tip lightly on the topside of Cloud’s cock, just an inch from the base. He sees the flicker of fear in those eyes, and hears the voices of his demons as they hiss a triumphant, anticipatory yesssssss in response. To his inhabitants, fear is the perfect spice.

He waits until it steadies, is pushed back by stubbornness and pride and determination. Cloud nods, swallowing, and Vincent knows he’s talked himself into accepting whatever happens next, convinced himself that Vincent wouldn’t really hurt him, and he wonders if Cloud really understands just how close it is at times. How very inhuman he feels, how what he wants right now has less to do with lust than hunger. The little voice of sanity that says, _this is Cloud, he’s a friend, he _trusts_ me_, is in a minority of one that isn’t entirely certain it can win the argument against the appetites of his demonic selves. But for now it’s enough and he turns the knife until the flat of the blade is facing him. With only the barest of pressure, he drags it toward him. The mark it leaves behind it is not a slice but a scratch.

“Aaah!” Cloud cries out, his cock jerking. A drop of blood beads there, and Vincent leans forward, takes him into his mouth. Cloud moans. Blood mixes on his tongue with the pre-ejaculate leaking from the tip, and suddenly his demons are reminded that they have other appetites. The knife falls to the floor as Vincent surges to his feet, unhooks the bound wrists and shoves him down onto his stomach.

The plug is pulled unceremoniously free, all the preparation the blond is given: then Vincent’s fumbling his pants open, pushing inside with far more urgency than finesse. He plunges into him, again and again, watching as each thrusts lifts Cloud’s hips into the air, bows that cut-marked back until some of them begin to bleed again. He’s not sure how he manages to grasp the clarity to flick the clasp on the cock-ring, releasing it, and as the body beneath him convulses in pleasure, he dives forward. His teeth sink deeply into the curve of a shoulder, drawing blood once more as he spills inside tightly clutching heat.

When he pulls out, he feels drained in more ways than one. His demons are quiet, and he knows it will be some time before they bother him again. He flops down beside the blond, grateful that Cloud has the foresight to lay a thick quilt down on the floor, because even now he can feel the hard surface of the floorboards beneath. He just can’t bring himself to move.

He’s not sure how they ever came to this. Too many late nights, sleepless because he was afraid to close his eyes and let his control slip, even for a moment and a sudden impulse that had him confiding in the former mercenary, who didn’t act disgusted in the least that one of his comrades had just admitted wanting to commit wholesale slaughter. No, Cloud simply started looking for ways to deal with his need for blood and violence, and offered himself as a target.

He’s listened to Tifa worry about Cloud’s mental state often enough that he worried this was some sort of attempt by the blond to punish himself. But as he watches blue eyes blink lazily open, a look of satiation and contentment in them, he knows that’s not true. Cloud has told him that past a certain point, the sensation blurs together: he’s not in it for the pain. No, the blond admitted, with cheeks flushed in embarrassment, for him there was a reassurance in being with someone strong, someone safe. Vincent still thinks he has an odd definition of safe, but he didn’t argue the point.

There’s something more to it, though. He remembers another conversation, a question asked amongst silvered trees: Can sins be forgiven? Cloud has his guilt, too. If a friend can be saved from his own demons by some small sacrifice on his part, then it’s a gift willingly given. Not a self-punishment, but something far more freeing in its effect.

There’s nobody left to forgive Vincent, and he’s not sure he’s not committing new sins with each time he calls the blond for help. He watches Cloud drift off to sleep, completely comfortable in his belief that with Vincent there, he’s safe. It’s one more gift that the gunman’s not sure he deserves, but as he allows his own eyes to slide closed he wonders if maybe he’ll find his own comfort when he can believe it, too.


End file.
